


Friends in High Places and Low

by Tammany



Series: The Sussex Downs [8]
Category: Good Omens, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Crossover, F/M, Fluff, Fun, Gen, M/M, Mash-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 14:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20320840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Minor resolutions and advances in relationships. The arrival of Janine. Information of a highly entertaining nature is dropped. Crowley is vastly amused.And for the record, our Angel and his Demon love each other quite a lot. Like for keepsies...the dear sillies.





	Friends in High Places and Low

They floated together, angel and demon, in the beautiful pool in Sussex, surrounded by pines and rose bushes and briars, which obediently minded Crowley’s demand not to risk one single sticker on Celestial skin, while being ready to rip the hide off any trespasser with evil intent.

The pool was a “natural” pool. To Crowley and Aziraphale’s amusement that meant it was completely unnatural, as carefully designed and maintained as any decent aquarium. There were areas of shallow water and plants; areas of small ponds made complicated with sand and stone and reeds and shore plantings, crammed full of frogs and tadpoles and ornamented with dragonflies and butterflies. There was deep water to swim in, chilled by a minor miracle that replaced mountain spring water. There was dappled shade—and just enough sun to keep the gloom away. There was enough breeze to ensure you were in the pool because you wanted to be, rather than because if you didn’t get in the pool soon you’d melt like a demon in holy water.

The roses in the garden shed waves of petals onto the water, which drifted until they met the rigidly restrained colony of holy lotus near the reed pool.

Roses and lotus—Heaven’s queens.

Beyond it all lay pavement and deck chairs, peonies and lilies, rosemary and thyme, nasturtiums and mint.

A human would have called it “Heaven.” Aziraphale and Crowley, familiar with Heaven, called it Earth, with warm and tender approval.

The angel and the demon drifted in the water, gripping each other’s wrists. Both were in female mode—Angel bright and shining; Nanny Ash darker, thinner, her hair a dark ember spread around her head. Even in the pool she wears her dark glasses.

They are a slowly turning star, joined at the single point where hand grips wrist.

They have made love in mid-day, shameless and unabashed that the nice policeman from next door heard them. He’s a grownup. He knows enough to understand.

“Do you feel better, Nan?”

“Mmmm.” Nanny allows the water to turn her. She and her bright lover spin, paired stars. “Yes. Do it ever occur to you that it’s a funny old world?”

“So I’ve heard,” Angel says, and Nanny can hear the laughter in her lover’s voice.

Angel’s hair is longer than it was when he was male. Nanny’s is what she considers a perfectly nice short crop—long enough to put up in a professional roll at the nape of her neck, not much longer. Silver-white and red—halos.

“The girl—she’s truly all right. Loved and loving, and cared for.”

“I know. I think I just never had the feeling of being free to act before. It’s a surprising weight to know you can.”

“I know, dearest.”

“Hesh, y’ bletherin’ old angel, you.”

Crowly loves his angel with a yearning that hurts, it is so intense.

Letting go is difficult, even just to swim to the shore, dry off, and dress.

“Getting back in trousers, love?”

“For now. Too early to shock the natives that badly.”

“It’s not as though that darling DCI didn’t get an eyeful, dear heart. He knows.”

“Yes. But he’s the high-impact model. And don’t tell me you’re not already planning to go sort out any issues after you’re done swimming.” She stretched, enjoying the lightness of her female body, the limber joints, the muscle without mass. Then, on a sigh, she took Crowley back.

He toweled his now-long hair, and sought in nothingness for a comb and brush.

“Here. Let me.” Angel rose magically from the water, opening her wings and fanning them more for joy than for any needed lift. She descended to the pavement, miracled into one of her beloved madras short sets, and took the mass of burgundy hair between her palms.

“Beautiful,” she sighed. She knelt behind her lover and blew gently into his hair, chasing away the water in delicate, rainbow tinted clouds of vapor. Then she began to brush.

Crowley crooned like a baby pigeon. “Oooooh, Angel…”

He could feel Angel’s love and her smile, even if he couldn’t see them.

“So,” Angel said, keeping up the steady stroke and glide of bamboo bristles through heavy curls. “Do you like having neighbors or shall I chase them off for you?”

“Ooooh, Guardian of the Southern Estate waves her sword! Do you think they’re likely to stay?

“I think in the past twenty-four hours the odds have moved from our gaining one bachelor neighbor to a household—with the count growing hourly. Sherlock will stay. Mycroft and Greg are at least likely to become part-timers, on the Persephone schedule, and we may have even more of them than that. John’s made enough of a mess of his life again that I suspect he will talk himself into finding work in the local village, so he at least has Sherlock as a constant. Where he and Rosie stay is still open to development. And then…smugglers? And who knows what. I think it shall be busy, dear.”

Crowley frowned, and turns his neck to give Angel better access to his nape. “Something else going on. Don’t know what.”

Angel gathered his hair and bunched it securely. Eyes twinkling she magicked up a pale plaid ribbon in greens and teals and champagne pale gold. She dangled it in sight. “Will this do? It would look so good with your hair. Bring the red up.” She chuckled when her beloved hissssed a pure, long hisss of laughing anger. “Not?

“Not if you want me to pamper you later like I did in the pool. Come on, Angel—you know better.”

Angel smiled, and the plaid turned to a supple portrait of Crowley himself in snake form, so realistic it seemed alive—the more so when she put the snake at the tight-clutched base of Crowley’s switch. It moved like a living thing, constricting tight, then biting its own tail between its jaws. As soon as the hair was secure, Angel began the process of braiding a complicated, multi-strand queue, which she finished by somehow tucking invisibly in under the snake clasp, creating a loop. She kissed him under the ear.

“Go. Get dressed and see what’s happening next door. I’m going to chat with the Darling DCI.”

“Yes, bossy.” He rose, leaned over to kiss her full on the mouth, and brushed her wild white curls out of her lashes. “Did I ever tell you that you’re the best thing that happened to me? Ever?”

Angel blushed and ducked her face and gave a breathy giggle. “Yes. But…”

“What?”

“The best? There’s so much to compare with.”

“Idjit.” He smiled. “All right. Be modest. You’re an angel, and I can’t ask for you to change too much. But modesty is not truth, Angel. Never was—never will be.” And with that he picked a gold rose, tucked it into his lapel, and sauntered away, out the gate and across the hillside to do his duty.

“How long?”

The voice came from the back entrance to the pool yard—Lestrade’s voice.

“How long what?” Angel said—then held back a snigger. If Crowley had heard her say that he’d be teasing her quite explicitly.

Lestrade caught the joke, too, and was polite enough to limit his reaction to a muffled snort. “How long have you two—whatever. Given the hey-presto-change-o into different genders it’s a bit hard to know what to call it.”

“Try just asking how long we’ve been together,” she suggested, voice tart. “It’s all anyone has a right to ask in any case.”

“All right. How long?”

Angel rose up, her chin lifting. “Six thousand years. More or less. Since Eden.

“Eden?”

She swept a stately bow. “Allow me to introduce myself: Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Bearer of the Flaming Sword, Principality of All Earth, at your service.”

“Color me impressed.” He sparkled at her, exerting his own charm. “DCI Gregory Lestrade, investigative administration in Serious Crimes at the MET, and embedded agent for MI5. Also cat-herder of Holmeses—an unofficial title, but one which has earned me great respect in the halls of the mighty.”

“I should think so. I find them difficult and I have the option of smiting them if they irk me.” Angel smiled.

“And Crowley goes all the way back to Eden, too. Why do I think it’s no risk to bet he’s been a snake in his time.”

“A snek, yes. But a darling snek.”

“You…love him.”

“Quite. And you love Mr. Holmes, likewise?”

“Seems that way, sunshine.”

They beamed at each other. Angel blinked a mild, hesitant smile and said, “My real name—my most important name is ‘he who loves Crowley,’ you know.”

“And whom Crowley loves?”

“Pray God yes.”

Lestrade nodded. “I…understand. Someday maybe you’ll tell me all about it?”

“Well. Some things, anyway. And—you? Your adventures with your beloved and his mad brother?”

“Some things, anyway.”

They laughed…and something quiet settled between them.

“Let me walk you over to Mycroft’s,” Lestrade said with a soft smile, and offered her his arm.

“I don’t mind if I do,” Angel said, quaint and chipper and delighted with them both. And she took his arm and allowed herself to be led around the pool and out the gate and down to the final gate onto the public access path. Together they ambled through the honeyed afternoon.

***

“Shezza!”

Crowley, sitting at his ease in one of Mycroft’s teak deck chairs, watched as a curvaceous, plush woman hurtled out of the big house and across the patio, crashing into the lean detective and swinging them both around in abandoned circles of joy.

“Shezza, you great git—I missed you!” She was boiling with feelings—at least ten or eleven, Crowley thought, sipping his G&T and gazing at her, yellow-eyed, over his sunglasses. She was a good six inches taller than his Angel’s five-four, and fully as lush-figured. Her hair was near-black. Her eyes were almost as dark. Her skin was fair, and her face was, like her accent, mostly Irish with hints of Pakistan to add charm and diversity. She was dressed in capri leggings and a summer tunic run riot with flowers.

To Crowley’s surprise Sherlock allowed himself to be embraced like a beloved teddy bear. Practically mauled.

Very uncool, Crowley thought…then smiled, thinking how much he enjoyed it when his angel set aside sober dignity and hugged him the same way, with the same joy his voice showed.

“Jannie…”

“Shhh. Be nice, Sherlock. Janine. Jannie’s for…other times.” She chuckled, and nuzzled in the curve of his collar. “Like the duds. Who knew you wore shorts?”

“On holiday,” Sherlock said, nose turning pink. “And the Bestaff and my city suits aren’t appropriate.”

“Not when you’re moving furniture. How’s that going?”

“Well enough. But I’d like your input.”

She gave him a saucy look. “Why ever would that be, Shez?”

He blushed pinker. “Um. A… Because…”

“No fair,” Crowley drawled from his deck chair. He took real glee in watching her spin, and Sherlock jump. Yeah, not paying attention to anything but each other, were they? “Let the poor boy alone. We are but frail, foolish things in the face of love.”

She opened her mouth, about to snap something back in instant response…then stopped. She turned to Sherlock. “Um…Shez? I think maybe…” She jerked her head, eyes dark and demanding.

Crowley frowned, trying to remember. Was this someone he knew? Or who should know him? Heaven? Hell? This had to be explored….

He rose up, leaving his G&T glass on the pavers. He bowed slightly. “You are a friend of Sherlock’s. I’m delighted to meet you. Allow me to introduce myself: Crowley, and your wish is my command.”

She hissed…

Hissed.

Her eyes went narrow and fierce. She held up a chain of keys, terminating in a large blue, white, and black bead. “Back off. I don’t care if you’re djinn or iffrit, you are not coming one step closer.”

He blinked. Oh. That was different.

“Erm…” he cocked his head, trying to sort her out. “Are you one of the many lineages of the Children of God?”

She scowled. “Gifted. Enough to know when I’m dealing with one of the children myself. What are you?”

“Demon,” Sherlock said, trying to sound entirely too cool for school. “Retired. He’s shacked up with an angel in the estate next door.”

She gazed at both men in wary distrust. “Riiiiiight.”

“You can sense it,” Sherlock said, giving not a single hint that he himself did not—that he was limited to faint clues and shameful eavesdropping to be able to say as much as he did. “If you can sense it, why are you looking at me that way?”

She flicked a burning glance back and forth between the two, then said, “Don’t be havin’ with me, Sherlock, or I will tell you more than you want to know about a Pakistani grandmother who makes roti and Irish brown bread, and has djinn and leprechauns and the Virgin Mary over to tea. And let’s not even mention her cat. Understand, lad? Just don’t be havin’ with me. And as for my Irish Nan—just watch yourself. She’ll put a spell on you faster than she has any right to.”

Crowley considered her. “Your Nan is sidhe?”

“Quarter, by way of Mad Sweeney. And before you ask, my Daadi’s entire family are supposed to be descended from the line of Gibreel for centuries back. Don’t mess with me, ifrit: I have friends in high places and low.”

Crowley looked at her—and looked—and began to laugh.

“Sonofabitch. SON of a BITCH. Wait till I tell Angel about this. That high-nosed clothes horse has been begetting himself a few begots! Well shame on him, and let’s pop the champagne. A pleasure to meet you, my dear. A real pleasure. Nice to know Sherlock got something right!”


End file.
